


Seventy-Six Trombones Played Gloria Gaynor

by teand



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Disco, M/M, cross dressing, the one with the lime green mini dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-21
Updated: 2006-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teand/pseuds/teand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean attempt to work a case during a gay pride parade. (S1)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventy-Six Trombones Played Gloria Gaynor

"Samson!"

Sam braced for impact as six foot five of Franklin Moore, all time leading scorer in the Pacific Coast Conference, MBA Stanford Business, and the 2006 Volunteer Coordinator for San Francisco's Gay Pride Parade flung himself into his arms. Rocked back on his heels, he accepted the hug, blocked the grope, and said: "How's it going, Frank?"

The ex-shooting guard untangled himself, took a step back, and frowned. "Darlin' boy, what am I wearing?"

Sam glanced down at the toe of the scarlet pumps just visible under a pair of chinos. "Sorry. Francis."

"Better." His smile was blinding. "You got my last message?"

"I did." Sam waved the cell phone still cupped in hand. He'd been waving Frank's – Francis' -- message at every officious twink with a clipboard they'd met for the last hour while trying to work their way through the crowds. "It's all that got us to you. Oh, and speaking of us..." He half turned wondering where Dean had gotten to now. He'd already had to pull him away from a restored '53 Triumph T100 Tiger and the dyke on the bike who'd been enthralled by his knowledge of classic motorcycles. Leave it to Dean to almost delay the start of the biggest Gay Pride parade in North America by flirting with a lesbian.

_"You are clear on the concept of lesbian?"_ he'd asked as he dragged his brother across the parking lot.

_"You are clear on the concept of Dean Winchester?"_ Dean had snorted, shaking free.

Finally spotting Dean working his way carefully around a group of men wearing multicolored balloons and not much else, Sam waved him over with a look that suggested he hurry the hell up.

"My ass is black and blue," he muttered, as he took his place at Sam's side. "I think it's been pinched by every other person in this city."

"Then I'll have to have give the slackers a strong talking to," Francis purred.

Dean looked up, way up, then down at the four inch stilettos and relaxed a little. Even at six foot, a guy got used to being loomed over when his little brother was Gigantica but he had his pride and the personality he'd have to put out to take care of those extra inches – well, it was exhausting just thinking about it.

"Dean, this is Francis Moore, a friend from college. Francis, this is Dean, my..."

"Dean." Francis cut off the rest of what Sam was about to say, enclosing one of Dean's hands in both of his. "I have to admit I have heard absolutely nothing about you. Young Samson here, he never told me a thing."

"Yeah, well, you'd have thought he was lying."

"So, you fill me in on every little detail."

"Can't do that, Francis. You'd think I was bragging."

Francis had a laugh that cut through the cacophony of music and voice at the parade head and that drowned out the lingering roar of the hundreds of bikes heading down Market Street. No one else in the assembly area seemed to notice it although both Winchesters tried not to wince.

"I like you, Dean. I like a man with a sense of his own accomplishments."

"Great. Can I have my hand back?" He was beginning to lose feeling in a couple of fingers.

"What do you say?"

"Now."

"Mmmm... fine, funny, and forceful." Francis let go and ran his tongue over his lower lip. "I could be in love."

"And I could be..."

"So, Francis, you said you had a problem on one of the floats?" Sam broke in before Dean could finish. He had no idea what Dean had been going to say and decided he'd be happier keeping it that way. While Dean didn't have a homophobic bone in his body, he was a little short on tact and Francis had been known to hold a grudge. Actually, Francis had been known to hold a frat boy out a third floor window. By the ankle.

"Problem, right." Mannerisms vanished as Francis ran both hands back over his head. "Okay, this is going to sound weird but last week, I was helping out on the KROB float – they're doing a whole seventies disco thing – and I was hanging the disco ball..."

"Because you didn't need a ladder?" As Francis raised an exquisitely plucked brow, Dean raised both hands. He knew a threat when he saw it. "Sorry."

"Anyway, I swear I could hear screaming from inside the ball. Real faint like, but a lot of voices – men and women – and just for a moment I thought I saw faces in the facets."

"Faces in the facets," Dean snorted.

"Your reflection," Sam began, ignoring him.

Francis shook his head. "Not me. Black men do not make convincing white women, Samson my lad. I don't know what made me think it but I'd bet my right nut that those were the faces of the voices screaming inside the ball. And then the faces were gone and it was quiet but I couldn't get the experience out of my head." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Then I started dreaming about it. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, the screams still ringing in my ears. Three days ago, I called you."

"Why me? I'm not saying you didn't do the right thing," he added, "but I'm curious."

"About a month ago I had a chat with Rebecca." Francis paused, as if he figured that would be enough.

And it was. Sam nodded, glad to have that answered and turned toward Dean – who was looking smug. "You know what this is?"

Dean shrugged. "Sounds like you got yourself a cursed disco ball."

Francis suddenly became Franklin. "Are you fucking with me, boy?"

Given that whole seven foot tall thing, Dean decided to let the _boy_ go. "Unfortunately, I'm completely serious. I'm betting they bought the ball at estate sale of some kind, out of a hotel up in Oregon. Nineteen seventy-nine, twenty-two people were found dead on a dance floor in that hotel. Corner's report said exhaustion. Theory was, they danced themselves to death."

Sam stared down at him in astonishment. "How the hell do you know that?"

"A few years ago, Caleb spent some time trying to find the ball. Said it had been cursed by a girl who thought disco represented the decline and fall of American music." He frowned. "Can't say I disagree with her."

"Caleb?"

Dean decided not to mention the white suit shoved into the back of Caleb's closet. "Yeah, Caleb. Get over it." He flashed a smile at Francis. "We lift the curse, we free the trapped souls, we party on."

"You can do that?"

"It's what we do," Sam told him. "Well, more lifting and freeing than partying but..."

"How long will it take?"

Dean shrugged again. "Not long. But we can wait until after the parade."

"They'll be dancing on the float." Francis closed his eyes and both Winchesters knew he was hearing the screams. And maybe the BeeGees. "They'll be dancing under the disco ball."

"Okay, we can't wait." Sam glanced down at Dean, who nodded. "We'll do it before the parade starts."

"The parade has already started."

"Fine." Dean rolled his eyes. "We'll do it during the parade."

Francis gave Dean's jacket, jeans, and boots what could only be called an evil eye. "Not dressed like that you won't."

***

Steering them around a PFLAG contingent, Francis led them to a large canvas tent set up on Folsom Street. It looked like Army Surplus although today – they paused while a man rode by on a unicycle making balloon animals from condoms – no one was asking because everyone seemed to be telling.

"Why me?" Dean demanded, swiveling his ass away from a particularly persistent set of octogenarian fingers.

"You'll fit into Brandon's costume," Francis told him.

He leaned around the ex-basketball player to pin Sam with an anxious eye. "Your Latin is better."

"You'll fit into Brandon's costume," Sam echoed, trying not to smile. This was serious. People could die. People had died. This was just another job.

"This is..."

"This is saving lives, Dean. Defeating the supernatural. It's what we do."

"Yeah but..."

"Emerald! Amanda!" Francis stopped outside the tent, his hand never leaving Dean's arm. It seemed that now he had the solution to his nightmares, he wasn't going to let that solution go. Or to be more precise, he wasn't going to let that solution chicken out.

Dean whistled softly as Emerald and Amanda emerged. He had no idea how they'd both fit in that tent at the same time. Hell, he had no idea how they both fit on the street at the same time. "They played football didn't they?"

"Linebackers," Francis said fondly. "Ladies, this lovely young thing needs to be in Brandon's costume and on that float in less than fifteen. Can you do it?"

"Can we do it?" Emerald scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"He asked you first," Dean said weakly.

Amanda smiled, showing two gold teeth. He flexed massive shoulders, impressively rearranging his décolletage, and grabbed Dean by the scruff of the neck. "Come with mama, Sweetcheeks."

Dean made an abortive clutch at the tent flap but Emerald grabbed his hands. "Sam?"

"Stop being such a baby, Dean. I thought you liked dressing up. The priest thing was your idea, remember."

"Sam!"

"I'll wait right here."

"High maintenance?" Francis asked as the tent flap fell and Dean's muffled protests ended with a startled squawk.

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed. "You have no idea."

"Priest thing?"

"Long story."

***

"If you laugh," Dean growled, pushing a pale blonde curl back off his face with one hand while the other attempted to pull the costume a little lower on his thighs, "I will fucking kill you."

Weirdly, Sam didn't feel like laughing. He opened his mouth but nothing came out so he closed it again and swallowed. Hard.

Dean was wearing a lime-green halter mini-dress with cut out sides and back, a front zipper, a hip belt with a white buckle, knee high white boots, and a matching lime-green headband over a long blonde wig. The mascara and shadow made his eyes look enormous and brilliantly green and the deep pink on his lips made them look obscenely swollen.

He didn't look like a woman -- he had way too much muscle for that. He didn't even look like a drag queen. He looked like Dean in a lime-green mini-dress and for reasons that were not entirely clear to Sam, Dean in a lime-green mini-dress looked like sex on a stick.

Francis found his voice first. "Holy Mary Mother of God, baby Jesus and all the angels."

Emerald, eyes glistening, nodded as he slapped Dean's hand away from his hem. "She's a work of art!"

Dean wobbled closer to Sam, not entirely steady on the four inch heels. "They shaved my legs," he snarled.

"In less than fifteen minutes?"

Amanda preened. "We're very good." Reaching out, he wrapped enormous hands around Dean's face and tilted it up. Bending his head, he carefully covered Dean's lips with his.

Sam watched wide-eyed as his brother was thoroughly kissed by an ex-linebacker dressed like a dancehall girl and gave thanks for loose jeans.

"You go out there and do us proud now, baby," Amanda murmured pulling back and using his thumbs to fix Dean's smudged lipstick. "The whole city'll be watchin'."

Looking a little poleaxed, Dean made no objection as Francis took his arm and started them walking back up toward Market Street. "We'll catch the float as it turns off Spear and onto Market," Francis said. "You're part of a set of dancers so there'll be no problem getting you on board."

"What are you wearing under that?" Sam asked, reaching out and stroking the fabric.

Dean slapped his hand away. "Leather thong," he snapped. "The tackle's tucked up tight so it doesn't ruin the line of the skirt. What?" he demanded as both of Sam's brows disappeared up into his hairline. "It's what Emerald said when he arranged me in the..." One hand waved. "You know."

"Are you blushing?"

"Fuck off."

Sam was almost grateful for the thought of Dean tucked into a leather thong, almost grateful for the thought of that line of leather running down between the muscular cheeks of his ass The visuals overloaded whatever synapses were cross-firing in his brain and allowed a certain amount of blood back upstairs. It was almost as though his brain was now cortextually post-coital, the lime-green mini-dress, knee high white leather boots, and leather thong having momentarily over-ruled the whole brother thing.

He still wasn't entirely certain why he hadn't mentioned the brother thing yet to Francis, correcting his obvious misinterpretation of their relationship. Not that it was any of Francis' business what his and Dean's relationship was. Not that they had a relationship. Besides the whole brother thing. Which hadn't been mentioned.

They could hear the music before they saw the float. _He's the Greatest Dancer_ by Sister Sledge.

"Shoot me now," Dean groaned.

"What? And ruin your pretty dress?"

"I can still kick your ass, Sammy, even in four inch heels." He grinned suddenly, corners of his eyes crinkling. "Hey, four inches. So this is what the air's like up here."

"Savor it while you can," Sam muttered. It had taken Dean less than thirty feet to get his strut back only now it came with a roll of his hips, the two inches of fabric under his ass flicking back and forth. Blood started rushing south again.

Someone whistled and Dean, who'd never had a problem being the center of attention, tossed his head, eyes gleaming. "I think I'm getting the hang of this."

Shooting him now suddenly seemed like a good idea.

"Samson, did you just growl?"

Teeth clenched, Sam glared past his brother -- who had turned out to be an enormous cross-dressing slut, no big surprise – at the man who had gotten them into this. "No."

Dean, his hand tucked in Francis' elbow, rolled his eyes. "He's so possessive."

"I am not!"

"It's all about what he wants," Dean sighed. And then, as they rounded the corner, "Is that the float?"

"Yeah, what gave it away," Sam muttered. "The cursed disco ball or the five matching candy floss bimbett's dancing under it." Yellow, pink, red, lavender, and turquoise versions of Dean's outfit were discoing for all they were worth, their movements making it clear why the thong had been necessary.

"Sam, get your head out of your ass for a minute. They're already dancing. If I get up there..."

Sam grabbed his arm, suddenly serious. "You'll be dancing too."

"Can't you undo the curse and dance at the same time." They turned together to stare at Francis, who shrugged. "It seems to be the obvious solution."

"No..."

Head cocked to one side, curls cascading over one broad shoulder, Dean squinted up at the float. "It'll only take about forty minutes to clear the ball, Sam. I can dance for forty minutes."

"With those legs you could dance all night."

"Stay out of this Francis." As far as Sam was concerned, Francis did not get to comment on Dean's legs. Or any other part of Dean's body. Most of which was clearly visible in the peek-a-boo outfit. "Forty minutes of disco, Dean."

Dean visibly shuddered then one corner of his mouth twisted up in half a familiar cocky grin as he met Sam's eyes. "It is what we do. We save the day. And, I'm already in the fucking dress."

Reluctantly, Sam nodded, wishing Dean wouldn't use the words fucking and dress in the same sentence.

As they closed the distance to the float, someone called out an explicit and physically unlikely suggestion. Sam surged toward the probable source of the comment but Dean hauled him back.

"Where the hell are you going?"

Sam stared at his brother in astonishment. "Did you hear what he said about you?"

"Sticks and stones..." Dean waved it off. "And maybe these heels but at least no one's been pinching my ass."

"That," said Francis as they reached the float, "is because now, you're a lady. May I?"

Dean accepted his help up onto the flatbed, got his balance, smiled, and said, "Bite me."

One hand over his heart, Francis returned the smile with interest. "Oh darlin' boy, if we only had the time." With another quick shift of mannerisms, he closed a hand over Sam's arm. "I've got to get back to work but find me when this is over. And thanks, guys. Thank you so much." A quick squeeze and he was gone.

With Dean's thighs now at eye level, Sam found himself mesmerized by the way the edge of the dress lapped against the muscle, how the skin on the inside curve seemed softer, paler, with a light dusting of golden hair that hadn't fallen to either Emerald or Amanda's razor.

"Sam! Hey! Listen up!"

"Sorry."

"And my face is up here!"

"Right." He titled his head back and tried to focus as he stumbled along beside the slowly moving float. Dean's lips were forming words although between the lipstick and the opening bars of _Y.M.C. A._ it was hard to hear the content.

"I said I need that black marker you always carry!"

"My wha...? Why?"

"I'll have to scribe the ball, remember?" Brows dipped down over the brilliantly green eyes, as Dean bent forward, one hand holding a cascade of blonde curls back off his face. "Are you high? Were you fucking smoking something while I was in getting my ass shaved?!"

"No!" Then Sam's last two functioning neurons fired. "They shaved your ass?" Oh yeah, Dean was definitely blushing. "Dude, you're kidding me? Your ass?"

"Just give me the goddamned marker so I can lift the curse and get off of this thing before my ears start to bleed!"

  
_I said, young man, you can make real your dreams. I said, young man..._   


This time, Sam shuddered. He dug the marker out of his hoodie's pocket and passed it up. "You sure you know what to scribe?"

The _oh give me a fucking break_ look was pure Dean. "I have done this before, Sam."

"Yeah, but never while dancing. And in a dress."

"Remind me to tell you about the Carmen Miranda incident some time."

"You were...?"

"Nope. Dad was."

"Oh God..."

Still reeling from the visuals, Sam nearly slammed into the burly woman checking the floats off a master list. He was pretty sure that Dean owned the same flannel shirt. And boots. And hair cut.

"Sorry, sweetheart..." The endearment sounded distinctly threatening. "...but only parade participants past this point."

"But my..." Suddenly unable to find the right word, he waved at Dean now ten feet away from him, the distance growing.

"Very nice. Let him go. If he comes back to you, well, yadda, yadda, yadda."

"But..."

"No buts no exceptions or we'd have the whole city marching then who'd be watching?"

"No one?" he offered when her expression seemed to demand an answer.

"That's right. No one. You think you can keep up by forcing a path through the crowd, be my guest, but you don't walk along the route."

Sam stared after Dean, now boogying under the cursed disco ball, matching the athletic movements of the other dancers. Dean never remembered the right fucking runes without cheat notes and besides, he was supposed to have Dean's ass... back. A sudden pain just under his sternum brought his attention to the matter at hand and he looked down to see the capped end of a sharpie pressing about a half an inch into his chest. When he looked up at the parade... person's face she smiled tightly and said, "Move."

He was shuffling out of her way before his brain finished processing the word. Jesus. John Winchester should have managed such a tone.

There was no way he'd be able to pace Dean on the sidewalk. Both sides of the street were packed with a seething mass of nearly hysterical humanity. Most, he suspected, people in town for the gay 'experience' since the entire population of San Francisco seemed to be either in or running the damned parade.

Then the next float in line pulled up beside him, Keith Urban blaring from the speakers. Besides the half dozen people riding, including an underdressed and obviously stoned cowboy clinging bonelessly to the back of a mechanical bull, this float included a number of men walking alongside.

Sam got an idea.

***

The way Dean saw it, life came with enough shit right up front that hating something was usually nothing more than a waste of energy. He didn't hate Southern Comfort even though he'd pretty damned near given himself alcohol poisoning drinking it the summer he was fourteen and even though the smallest whiff of it still made him start to cramp up and think about puking on his shoes. He didn't hate Mary Elizabeth Neilson even though she'd been responsible for the blue balls that had caused him to fail grade ten history and ultimately for the hell he'd caught from his dad. He didn't even really hate "the demon", at least not the way Sam and their dad did. But he hated disco.

He hated the stupid lyrics. He hated the boom chukka of the beat. He hated it with an intensity that literally made his jaw ache. And yet, here he was, a dancing fool in a lime-green mini-dress, unable to stop moving and trying to remember if the next rune he needed curved around to the left or the right. He used to wonder how far he'd go to make the world a safer fucking place. He'd stopped wondering about three bars into _I Will Survive_ because if farther than this existed, he didn't want to know.

And then it didn't matter because the movement of the dance took him out to the edge of the marked dance floor.

"Your turn to play to the crowd, baby!" screamed pink dancer over the music.

Not really thinking about what he was doing, Dean took three steps to the right, three to the left with a wiggle and a dip. "Look, I need to..."

"You need to shake your booty!"

A slap on the ass and the crowd went wild and maybe it was the cursed disco ball and maybe it was the screams of approval from hundreds of throats lining the road but Dean was suddenly down with booty shaking. He caught the beat, shimmied down into a crouch, shimmied back up again, strutted to the front of the float, strutted to the back, turned and flipped his ass at a clump of college boys in the crowd. The surge of reaction just about lifted him off his feet. Between that and the feel of air moving against his shaven ass and the way the boots held him up on his toes and the weight of the wig like a huge hand on the back of his neck, he was rock hard inside that leather thong.

Fortunately, it was tight enough that things kissed the edge of painful and he was able to use that to keep his mind on the job.

Right. The job.

Lifting the curse off the disco ball.

The curse that had him strutting his stuff in a fucking lime-green mini-dress like some sort of... actually, he had nothing in the way of metaphor. And he wished he'd stop using the words dress and fucking in the same sentence.

He disentangled himself from yellow dancer, currently humping his leg like a horny golden retriever, tightened his grip on the sharpie, moved back into the center of the float and got down to it.

***

It had cost Sam five hundred bucks – he maxed out the cash advance on one of his credit cards – but he managed to find a walker close to his size who was willing to sell his costume. The important thing was that the boots fit and that he now had an excuse to get close to Dean. 

Moving into the space between the floats, he twirled his lasso and caught red dancer's eye. "Tell the guy in the green that it curves to the left!" he yelled.

Those who heard roared their approval. Licking his lips, red dancer did a remarkably saucy pirouette and boogied over to Dean's side.

***

Of course the left. Duh.

Dean adjusted rune, added another two, stepped back to check the pattern and got caught up by what was happening on the dance floor as the song changed.

***

Was Dean doing the Hustle? Sam pushed the cowboy hat further back on his head and stared. Apparently the curse came with dance lessons.

***

As the line of dancers turned, arms up over their heads, multi-colored dresses riding high exposing six sets of muscular glutes glistening with the fine sheen of sweat that came from eight blocks of cursed disco, Dean caught sight of Sam, stumbled, and would have fallen had not red and lavender each grabbed him, keeping him on his feet.

Sam was almost wearing a pair of jeans. Skin tight, they hung so low on his hips Dean was certain the hair he thought he could see curling over the waistband had to be pubes. Over them, he wore a pair of black chaps -- which was like wearing a big sign that said, _Hey San Francisco, look at my crotch!_ Until he turned around, and then it said, _Hey San Francisco, look at my ass!_ Not that San Francisco needed the encouragement. He had on cowboy boots and a cowboy hat and that was it. His long, muscular, golden torso was completely bare.

What the fuck did Sam think he was doing walking around half naked?

And when the fuck did Sam have time to get a tan?

As the pattern broke up, he danced closer to the back of the float, and yelled, "Put some God damned clothes on!"

He could see Sam's mouth move, but he couldn't hear content over the sound of _Casanova Brown._.

"He says he wants to fuck you and you have nice balls," yellow dancer told him as they bumped hips on the beat.

Dean stumbled again. "He what!?"

***

Sam rolled his eyes. Sound apparently carried better coming off the float than the other way around. "I said, fuck you and get back to the disco ball!"

***

"Oh, baby. There he goes again. Darlin' if you don't want him, I'd certainly be willing to take a..."

"Keep your god damned hands off him!" Dean snarled. "He's..."

Undulating. Sam was undulating. Thrusting his hips forward and his shoulder's back then reversing the motion while half a mile of sculpted muscle fought to find some kind of equilibrium in between.

Thrown completely off his rhythm, yellow dancer stomped on Dean's foot. "Oh. My. God."

"Yeah."

Apparently Sam's porno move had been intended to get him closer to the back of Dean's float without raising the suspicions of the volunteers stationed along the route. Dean wondered what the hell was wrong with walking like the rest of the known universe. That's just what they needed, Sam turning into some kind of cowboy exhibitionist. Wondering if this was something he ought to be worried about, he danced through two measures of the Bus Stop until a length of rope smacked him on the thigh.

As it withdrew, he watched mesmerized as the knot on the end slithered over the asphalt until it led him back to the rest of the loop clutched in Sam's hand.

Sam looked concerned.

"Damnit, Dean! Remember why you're up there!"

"To flash your incredible ass at all and sundry," turquoise dancer suggested as he boogied by, dripping with sweat and beginning to pant.

"That's just a bonus, babe," Dean growled, throwing a three step in at the end of his heel toe sequence. When he looked up again one of the other cowboys had roped Sam back to his own float. Sam didn't look too happy about it either, fighting against the loops of rope around his chest and two pairs of hands holding him back.

No one, not fucking anyone, manhandled his baby brother like that! The sudden surge of rage cut through the music and Dean threw himself down off the back of the float... 

Intended to throw himself down off the back of the float.

But he couldn't stop dancing.

Fuck.

Right. The cursed disco ball!

Rhythmically waving his arms, he caught Sam's eye. "It's okay. I'm back!" He waited until Sam nodded and relaxed then he danced to the center of the float. Humming _Creeping Death_ in an effort not to succumb to the seductive beat of _Anybody Want to Party_ , he danced in a tight spiral under the ball and scribed the last three points of the pattern.

Nothing left but the Latin. Piece of cake.

***  
Sam had promised to stay with his own float but he knew the other cowboys were keeping an eye on him. And at least one of them knew how to use the rope they were all swinging -- he had a welt across his chest where the rough hemp had dug in when they hauled him away from Dean, the lingering sting keeping his left nipple embarrassingly erect.

They'd just passed the Seventh/Jones intersection. The parade was over at Eighth but the music would keep playing and those dancers would keep dancing and one of those dancers was Dean and Dean was his brother even if no one around here knew it so he could just stop fucking thinking of how much he wanted to get his hands up under that lime-green fabric and start worrying about Dean remembering the fairly complex chant necessary to end the curse.

Dean was really more a blast it with rocksalt and/or set it on fire kind of guy.

Of course, up until Emerald and Amanda got their hands on him, Sam wouldn't have said Dean was a lime-green mini-dress kind of a guy so hell, what did he know.

***

The trick with Latin was finding a rhythm and sticking to it, then let the words just kind of flow out on their own. Okay, in this particular instance the words got a little mixed up with the words to _Walk on By_ but it was a cursed disco ball for fuck's sake – it should appreciate the thematic convergence.

They were off the parade route now, pulling over to the spot in the parking lot where the float would become the KROB station on the street for the rest of the day. Dean could feel sweat soaking through the dress, plastering it to his body. His lungs were burning, his legs were aching, and the other dancers, who'd started one song earlier, were in worse shape. But they were all still dancing.

Time for the big finish.

"In Nomine Patris, et Nomine Filii, et Nomine Spiritus Sancti! Get down, get back up again, and let my people go!"

***  
Sam threw a hand up over his eyes as the disco ball exploded in a searing flash of light, a billion tiny silver sparkles floating down over the wildly applauding crowd. Blinking away multi-colored afterimages, still half blind, he raced for the float, careening off several hard bodies – none of whom seemed to mind.

By the time he got there, people wearing t-shirts from the radio station were helping the other dancers down and Dean was sitting on the edge of the flatbed, breathing heavily and swinging his legs.

Sam rocked to a stop, and found he had nothing to say.

_We Are Family_ began blasting from the loudspeakers.

Dean twisted around, glared at the speakers, pulled a knife from – actually Sam didn't want to think about where the knife came from – and whipped it through the wire connecting the speaker to the CD player under the deck. The knife quivered in the pole, the lower half of the wire dropped to dangle almost to the pavement, and blessed silence descended.

Relatively speaking, since it was now easier to hear Toby Keith and _As Good as I Once Was_ blaring out over the groaning of the mechanical bull. Or possibly over the groaning of the rider on the mechanical bull.

"Hey! Cowboy!"

Sam snapped his attention back to Dean.

Who brushed damp curls back off his face and gestured down at the pavement. "A little help here, partner; I don't think my knees are up to the drop."

"Right. Sorry." Stepping forward, Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's waist and lifted.

Which wasn't quite what Dean had in mind but since he was already in the air, he put his hands on Sam's bare, warm shoulders and allowed himself to be set gently on his feet. And he would swear until the day he died there was a rock or something under one heel and that was the reason he stumbled forward, finding himself suddenly pressed body to body against a half naked Sam. 

Forward motion, not intent, slid his hands around Sam's neck.

He looked up and realized the cowboy boots had allowed Sam to regain the height advantage.

Sam looked down. Dean's mascara had run and the lipstick was long gone but his eyes were still a brilliant green and his lips were still...

...were still...

"I think I’m going to kiss you now," he whispered.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Dean snorted and dragged his brother's mouth down to his. And then, caught up in the moment, he let his hips roll forward and kicked back one white leather clad, high heeled foot.

Which was when the photographer took the picture.

 

**Coda**  
\--------

Muting Discovery Kids, Dean tossed aside the bag of peanut M&M's and picked up his cellphone. Both brows rose as he glanced at the name on the screen. "Dad?"

"You want to tell me why I'm looking at a picture of Sam on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle's GLBT section?"

"Dad, why are you reading..."

"Not the point, Dean." John Winchester did not sound happy. "The point is that my youngest son is half naked and kissing some cross dressing slut in a lime-green mini-dress during a gay pride parade!"

Dean's heart started beating again. "So you didn't get a look at this cross dressing slut's face?"

"How could I?" The words were more of an angry growl. "Sammy had half of it sucked into his mouth!"

A damp towel smacked him in the shoulder and Dean turned to see that Sam had finally hauled his ass out of the shower. Grinning, he tossed him the phone. "It's for you."

\--end-- 

 

  



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